


Gerome's No Good, Very Bad Day

by AlphaStarr



Series: In Which Gerome Is Secretly Crying Under His Mask [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Awkward morning after, Chrom/Olivia Royal Family Dynamics, Implied Sexual Content, Inigo Thinks He's Clever But He Isn't, Innuendo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Gerome's day had started off well. In retrospect, that should have tipped him off to the rest of the day being absolute shit, but hindsight is 20/20. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In which Inigo is Not-A-Virgin (anymore), his sister Lucina is overprotective, and even the gods seem to hate Gerome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gerome's No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation I had with [this person,](http://equiuszahhax.tumblr.com) who plays [Gerome](http://masked-seamster.tumblr.com) in an RP group I am in.
> 
> EDIT 3/29/16: Pardon my French! Not a native speaker, so the sentence came out rather odd. Correction via [this comment.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3544184/comments/56442388) Feedback much appreciated.

Gerome's day had started off well. In retrospect, that should have tipped him off to the rest of the day being absolute shit, but hindsight is 20/20.

He woke up half-sprawled on top of Inigo, still unclothed but fortunately under the blankets. The prince was huddled under him, having sought warmth in his sleep and Gerome felt his face soften from morning grumpiness. His face. Gerome wrinkled his nose. Gods, that felt weird without the mask.

It was still odd, this thing he had with Inigo. Gerome wasn't even completely sure what to call it. It was hardly a proper courtship, nor anything remotely resembling the types of romances in the books Severa secretly read and the legends Cynthia would tell around the campfire. Then again, his own parents had bonded over service to their feudal lords and sewing, so Gerome didn't exactly have the most traditional example set before him. His relationship with Inigo-- Inigo the Prince of Ylisse, Inigo who was born of the most whirlwind romance ever seen in real life-- was far from the tales of yore, where the brave knight would serve as champion for the royal ingenue in distress.

Mostly, their meetings on the battlefield consisted of him and Minerva giving Inigo a ride to whichever enemy he'd set his sights on... and Inigo jumping off before they'd even completely landed, slaying the foe with a roguish grin and two slashes of a silver sword. There were times that Gerome felt a bit like a really fancy, flying carriage service.

It didn't help that Inigo had joked about him being his "favorite ride" in the middle of sex.

Their relationship was a lot of midnight meetings and half-practiced dances, pretending to go pick up women at taverns but really only talking with each other over drinks (and avoiding Gerome's admirers), quiet and maskless moments where they would shyly sit together and studiously avoid each others' eyes. It was the false, Casanovic bravado coming down alongside equally false coldness, melting into awkward humor and timid affection and, as of yesterday, clumsy attempts at sex... though, Gerome thought wryly, Inigo insisted they practice until they no longer fumbled quite so much. They were kisses stolen when nobody else could see, the handkerchief "tokens of favor" Inigo insisted on tucking into their shirts before battles, trysts full of whispers that began when the moon was high and ended before the sun came up.

It was the last note that made Gerome grunt softly and rise from the bedroll. Even though the cloudy wetness of April obscured the sun, he knew it was still at least an hour before the strike of dawn. As a young boy, his father's training regimen had him up at this hour near daily, and Gerome was a creature of habit.

Inigo shivered at the loss of warmth and curled in on the sheets. He stirred, but did not wake. Gerome could hardly leave him cold, so he tossed another quilt over him-- a peach-colored one that emphasized the delicacy of his complexion-- and then dressed, first his smallclothes and chemise, his manches en bouffantes, his pantalons, and then (as silently as the night itself), slipping into his armor. It was slow work, this silence, but it would prevent him from being discovered in Inigo's tent. With a quiet clink like the touching of a fork to porcelain, he picked up his mask and set it to his face, heading out for morning rounds.

That was when the first thing went wrong.

Immediately upon stepping outside of Inigo's tent, he found himself with the wrong end of a sword pointed to his throat, and at the sword's other end, a steely glare.

"Gerome," the woman said, inching the sword so close that Gerome had to lean his head back to get it a safer distance from him. The blade glinted in the dim, early morning light, a line of gold on the sword drawing his eye and _oh **shit** that was Falchion, wasn't it?_

Falchion, the holy sword of the Exalted bloodline.

Falchion, the dragon-slaying godsword, the nightmare blade of every Wyvern Rider in Plegia.

And, perhaps most importantly: Falchion, the blade wielded by _Inigo's sister_.

Inigo's sister, as in Lucina, who was practically unparalleled with a sword, whose hits bore such power and speed that most enemies barely survived the first hit, and _no_ enemies survived the second. Inigo's sister, who would defend her family with her life.

Gerome gulped.

"Lucina," he replied, beginning to sweat under his mask.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and Gerome couldn't help but be drawn to the brand of the Exalt in her left eye. The mark that proved she was sovereign lord of the future, and too had the power to back up that claim. He was possessed by the urge to run, but stood his ground. For Inigo, he'd faced down undead and tyranny alike, and he could hardly call himself a Wyvern Knight if he couldn't even stand down his sister... no matter how scary she might be.

"You, and my brother?" she asked, cool and strong in her voice. "I admit, I knew of your relationship, or at least had my suspicions... but I hadn't guessed you'd take advantage of him as you did last evening. I thought better of you, Gerome."

"Take... advantage?" Gerome tried to keep the nervousness from his voice, genuinely confused.

"Yes," Lucina ghosted over the apple of his throat with Falchion's tip-- not enough to draw blood, but enough for him to feel it. He was afraid to swallow, lest he accidentally direct himself into its path. She hissed, "You took advantage of his feelings for you to lay with him, and now that you've deflowered him, you're going to try to escape responsibility. _I'm_ here to make sure you pay your due."

"Oh, gods," Gerome breathed, the half of his face that wasn't masked visibly paling. "You mean before last night, he was--?"

"A virgin, yes," Lucina's glare intensified. "I would have thought that was _obvious_."

Though he was far from craven, Gerome was a sane man. And any man with the slightest hint of sanity would have, in his place, been equally afraid-- indeed, a man with greater sanity than Gerome would have bolted as soon as they recognized the sword. But, too, was he a brave man, and though he was quaking on the inside, he crushed the emotion and answered, "Whatever this responsibility entails, I am prepared to fulfill it. My intentions are serious."

"Good," Lucina lowered the sword slightly. It was still uncomfortably close, but at least now he could breathe without worrying about slicing his throat. "If you wish to prove it, you will follow me now. I take my brother's safety very seriously, Gerome, and I'll not allow you to compromise it, even if you _are_ my friend."

* * *

 The next twelve hours were filled with the most grueling training Gerome had ever done in his life, which was saying a _lot_ , given who his father was. Frederick's regime was brutal, but Lucina's genuinely made him worry that he was going to die of exhaustion.

The first three hours were all right, as Lucina had pulled him in for Frederick's Fanatical Fitness Hour, three times in a row. That was all right. He was _used_ to that. He'd even grown accustomed to seeing his father-but-not-father run it, and not his Actual Father.

But then Lucina had found Severa, and wouldn't you know it, she'd _just needed_ someone to help her decorate the barracks more tastefully. Gerome spent the next two hours lifting heavy furniture, holding entire bookshelves _with books in them_ for minutes at a time while Severa dictated, "No, a little to the left... gawds, you idiot, not THAT far to the left! Now it's covering the Gothic-framed portrait of our army! Don't you have any sense of design at ALL?"

(Gerome did, but held his tongue. It wouldn't do for Severa to know that his sense of clothing design was impeccable, otherwise he'd be swimming in commissions.)

Then, it turned out that Lucina had left in order to persuade Kjelle to loan them her training armor. Her weighted, strength-building training armor, with almost all of its weights attached. The next two hours were spent running weighted laps, doing weighted push-ups, and helping Noire with lunch duty, stirring the soup and whipping cream for dessert with a weighted arm.

And then, Lucina brought Noire into it. Poor, sweet, gentle Noire... except when she was neither sweet nor gentle, and actually cackling maniacally while shooting arrows at you. Gerome would never believe it, but he was actually grateful for Kjelle's training armor, busty breastplate and all, as every arrow that hit, though painful, only caused bruises instead of full-on lacerations. By the end, he'd given up completely and fallen flat on his face while Noire laughed furiously at him, something about how the thunder at last struck him down. She apologized to him later, though, and promised not to shoot at him in battle. Gerome was too tired to reply.

Gerome spent the next hour desperately trying to get a kneader to work, attempting to channel what little magical energy he possessed into healing himself, even just a little. He was sore and stiff everywhere. By the time he'd gotten it to start functioning, it was nearing the daily afternoon training and Lucina was _pointedly_ looking at him across the room, as if daring him to skip it.

He went, and spent the last three hours before dinner sparring. It seemed that every other time they switched partners, Gerome was paired against Lucina, and she reminded him repeatedly of her skill. And also that axes had a marked disadvantage against swords, even practice ones. Lucina was hard enough to hit on a good day, but after the day Gerome had, she was nigh impossible to tag. Meanwhile, his whole body felt like it just might be one giant bruise after he'd been whacked with a practice sword for the nth time.

No knight feared the slow but steady road, and Gerome was no exception. Fearing Lucina was an entirely different thing altogether, though, and if her intention had been to terrify him, she'd succeeded.

Perhaps the worst thing about the last twelve hours was that he hadn't seen even the slightest hint of Inigo. Though he may not have been the earliest riser (Gerome knew for a fact that he purposefully slept through all three of Frederick's Fanatical Fitness Hours), Gerome had been all over camp that day, and to have not seen him all day... well, it was weird and disheartening. It made him wonder if Inigo wasn't the one taking advantage of _him_ \-- though Gerome very quickly nipped the thought in the bud. He'd find out soon enough, and it wouldn't do him any good to worry about it.

Dead tired and near-starving (he hadn't eaten yet today, he realized), Gerome prayed to every god he knew of that Lucina wouldn't make him train through dinner.

There's a saying in Rosanne, however, that Gerome should have remembered:  _Trouver ce que l'on cherche est pire que de le vouloir_ \-- finding what you want is worse than wanting it.

"Gerome!" a merry exclamation flew forth, and Gerome was abhorred to see the beaming face of Chrom, the ruler of Ylisse and Inigo's father. He'd seen this man take down an entire _wall_ single-handedly. By accident. This was the man that was the reason Lucina's sword skills were only _almost_ unparalleled.

"Milord," Gerome replied. He didn't... look violent... but Gerome had seen him go from amicably joking to making war plans in a split second, so he kept his guard up.

"Ah, there's no need to be so formal," Chrom clapped him on the shoulder. "Lucina tells me that you resolved to train extra-hard this morning. I'm really quite impressed you managed to keep up with her, and on a heavy training day, too."

"This type of day is... part of her normal regimen?" Gerome winced, not sure if his shoulder hurt because it was bruised or because Chrom was just really strong. Probably both, now that he thought about it.

"I know. I don't know how she does it," Chrom shook his head. "Anyways, I wanted to ask you if you'd eat dinner with our family tonight. Maybe you'll be a good influence on Inigo's work ethic!"

He laughed, and Gerome couldn't help but think that Inigo had _plenty_ of work ethic, but it was all confined to the bedroom. He cut that thought off before it proceeded into exactly how _enthusiastic_ Inigo could be, most inappropriate thoughts to be having in front of _his father_.

Lucina glared at him as if she could tell that he was thinking dirty thoughts about her brother. Gerome nervously bit the inside of his cheek.

"I-- all right," Gerome acquiesced. At least this way, he'd be guaranteed to see Inigo even once today.

* * *

A quick trip to Brady later ("Geez, how'd ya even _get_ so many bruises?"), Gerome stumbled tiredly into the mess tent, most of the tables already filled. His eyes sought out the table where the royal family usually sat, and found that the only seat left was directly to the right of the head of the table, next to Chrom. Olivia sat on his other side, sharing the head of the table with her husband, and, thankfully, Inigo sat directly across from where Gerome would shortly be sitting. The downside, of course... Lucina was sitting next to Inigo, and if he wanted to fulfill his vow, he would also have to sit beside Frederick... his father-but-not-father. Who was also sitting right next to mother-but-not-mother.

A breath that was half a sigh composed Gerome. After the day he'd had, he reassured himself, there was no way this dinner could possibly make it worse.

Inigo immediately perked up as Gerome approached, and the wyvern rider wished he wouldn't be so obvious. Gerome, too, felt his heart leap in his chest, but he was far better at hiding it than Inigo was.

"Ah... glad you could make it," Chrom grinned at him, completely ignorant of how his son's eyes were practically devouring Gerome's image. He was, too, oblivious to how Lucina was glaring daggers at him. "It would've been a shame for you to miss dinner tonight... Olivia was in charge of kitchen duty, and she cooks like an angel."

"Oh! Um, it's not really that good, but I hope you like it anyways," the queen of Ylisse blushed. "I had Inigo helping me in the kitchen since he sprained his foot last night, so that should probably make it a little better than usual..."

"He... sprained his foot?" Gerome raised an eyebrow. Not like anyone could see because of the mask, but it was the thought that counted.

"Right, when I was practicing last night," Inigo twirled a lock of hair around one of his fingers flirtatiously as he looked at Gerome. "I guess I was so tired that I didn't notice it when I went to sleep, but I most _definitely_  felt it this morning. I couldn't even walk for a while because it was so sore!"

Gerome prayed that his mask covered enough of his face that nobody could see his blush. Was Inigo trying to be _clever_? At this rate, he'd expose both of them.

"You look rather warm, Gerome," Frederick noted. (Shit, the mask didn't cover enough.) "Perhaps you should remove your face coverings in practice, especially if you intend on maintaining the same training regimen Lady Lucina uses."

"Maybe," Gerome mumbled, trying to cover his lower face with a hand.

"I think he should start with a less laborious version and work his way up," Lucina's obstinate jaw tightened minutely as she neatly sawed at the food on her plate, making it abundantly clear to Gerome that she thought he wasn't good enough for her brother. "If he truly wishes to protect those he cares for, it shouldn't be too difficult for him to reach this level."

Gerome's eyes flickered to her grip of the knife, and how efficiently she cut her food. It made him irrationally nervous.

"Aw, Lucy, you're too serious," Inigo beamed, completely unaware that she was attempting to threaten his lover. "Surely he doesn't need to train _that_ much? I mean, he barely socializes to begin with... And you too! Even if we're at war, it's no good to be so grave all the time."

"Better to be grave than to be _in_ a grave," the corner of Lucina's mouth turned upwards slightly, a mild ease coming into her as she ruffled her brother's hair.

"Hey! Don't do that; I'll have to fix it," Inigo laughed, batting his sister's hand away.

Gerome's tensed in the middle of accepting a plate of food from Frederick. He'd almost completely forgotten how morbid Lucina's sense of humor could be.

Frederick coughed awkwardly, "It's unlike you to be so distracted."

"It was the change in training," Gerome asserted. "The difference from habit threw me off. It won't happen again."

"Ah..." Frederick nodded solemnly. "I can understand that feeling. Even to this day, I still practice the same shadow-fencing moves I learned on my first day as a knight..."

Gerome tuned him out. It was hard to remember that this version of his father wasn't actually his father, even if he told the exact same lame stories over and over again, just like the Actual Father of his time.

Chrom had also very clearly heard this story a hundred times, as he rolled his eyes but settled in to listen to it anyways. It was a lengthy story, and about halfway through, he coughed and said, "Er, as interesting as this all is, could someone please pass the potatoes? They're really good, Olivia, you could teach the cooks at Ylisstol a thing or two."

"Uhm, they're actually Lon'qu's recipe," she smiled a bit and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "It's an adjustment of a Feroxi dish Basilio taught us when we were kids."

"Well, whatever it is, they're delicious," Cherche replied, passing the bowl to Frederick, giving him a pointed look, directing him to give it to Gerome to give to Chrom.

"Excellently done," Frederick agreed, too intelligent to argue with his wife, who was incidentally better at handling axes than he was. He passed the bowl to Gerome.

Gerome gulped and passed the bowl to Chrom. The Prince Exalted brushed his hand as he took the potatoes from him, and Gerome nearly yelled out "I'M FUCKING YOUR SON" but shoved a forkful of broccoli in his mouth instead.

"Hm, I could use some potatoes, too," Inigo mused. He winked at Gerome with the eye that had the Brand in it, "I'd like some more _gravy_ though. Gerome, could you pass me the gravy?"

Frederick looked between them for a second, as if that wink had made something click in his brain. His eyes widened as it dawned upon him. Cherche patted his arm consolingly, as if she'd just been waiting this whole time for him to realize exactly what was going on between their son and Inigo-- which, if Gerome had to guess, she probably _had_ been. Gods, he realized, his past parents _knew_.

Gerome pushed the gravy across the table, coughed, and stood, "Food was good, but I have to go. Minerva's expecting a bath tonight."

He didn't wait for anyone to reply, too mortified to spend another minute at the table.

"Did I say something offensive...?" Olivia asked, her eyebrows furrowing in worry. She bit her lip, "Oh, I knew I shouldn't have put so much pepper on the steak!"

"No, Mother, it wasn't you," Inigo assured her. "He just doesn't like people much. Probably he filled his socialization quota, or something."

"I still want to make sure he's okay," Olivia gathered her scarves and stood. "I know what it's like to be bad around people... I'll be right back!"

She hurried from the mess tent in pursuit. It took her longer than expected-- even if she was faster than him, Gerome had the benefit of blending in with the dim evening light. Still, she caught up with him just short of the wyverns' stables.

"Gerome!" she exclaimed, and when he turned he couldn't miss the glittering dancer.

"Lady Olivia?" he asked, confused. "What are you--?"

"Oh... I just saw you leave, and I wanted to make sure you were okay..." she hid a bit in her own shoulders. "I hope nobody made you too uncomfortable... Lucina was a bit, um, hostile-looking, and Inigo... well, I know what it's like when you're shy, and there's public affection and things like that, and I really hope you're not super embarrassed."

Gerome sputtered incoherently for a few seconds.

"Um, right! I forgot," Olivia twisted one of her scarves in her hands nervously. "Er, I already know about you and Inigo... my husband's not too observant when it comes to romance, but I notice these types of things. Also, I've had enough sprained ankles to know that that's not how you limp when you've got one... uhm, would it be rude if I asked you to be a bit gentler on him next time? Not that I mind his help in the kitchen, but he's really a lot more useful as a fighter, and... look! I even brought you something to make it easier."

Olivia shoved a tin of something into his hands, and, with no small amount of mortification, Gerome realized that it was _lubricant_.

Inigo's mother had just given him a tin of lube, and asked him to take it easier on her son.

"I. Yes, of course," Gerome reassured her, pocketing the substance hastily. Agape at how the Queen of Ylisse had managed to purchase it without some sort of national scandal, he asked, "How did you even _get_ this?"

"Oh, I just, um, nicked it from Lon'qu," Olivia scratched the side of her face anxiously. "Don't tell him; I don't think he'll miss it... he had a lot of them. Between you and me, I'm pretty sure praying isn't the only reason Libra's knees always get scratched up."

"By the gods," Gerome buried his face in both of his hands. His mask provided insufficient coverage against the things he just didn't need to know.

"Anyways, I should be getting back now... please remember not to be too rough," Olivia left in a haze of whirling scarves and glitter.

By this point, Gerome felt as if he was going to die of embarrassment. At least Minerva wouldn't be able to talk at him, he thought, and set to work scrubbing his darling Minervykins' scales until they glistened. She preened underneath his attentions, and he was relieved she seemingly had nothing to say about the latest development in his relationship with Inigo-- then again, Minerva had already known, so he supposed the news wasn't new to her. Once he was finished making sure the most adorable wyvern who'd ever lived was clean and comfortable, he took to dusting her tack... where he noticed one of the saddlebags had been filled.

There was a paper bag inside, a note in tidy cursive written on it: "Be safe, sweetie! The battlefield's not the only place where there's danger. xoxo, Cherche."

He wrinkled his nose. His Actual Mother had written similar notes on the lunches he and his Actual Father would take when they were training, and the similarity was striking. He supposed she must have packed him some sort of healing concoction.

He opened the bag. It was filled with condoms.

Minerva released a draconic cackle. Gerome knew that she was laughing at him.

* * *

Gerome quietly made his way towards Inigo's tent near midnight, though, as he did almost every night. It had taken him ages to wash away the grime from training with Lucina, but he'd bathed and, truth be told, he genuinely felt a great deal better about his day after a bath. The only thing that kept his exhausted limbs moving was the knowledge that he would be seeing Inigo shortly, and he'd be able to just curl up with him and let down his guard.

"Son," a voice boomed from behind him, and Gerome nearly jumped. He'd been so tired that he hadn't even noticed Frederick approaching him.

"Sir Frederick," the masked man replied tersely, his jaw tightening. He had no wish to speak with his father-but-not-father this evening, of all evenings. "I would ask you permit me to skulk in peace."

"Son," Frederick took Gerome by the shoulders and looked into his eyes, more serious than he'd ever seen him before. That was, in Gerome's opinion, saying quite a lot, as few people could rival Frederick for solemnity. "I cannot order you against your will, but I must ask you to terminate this... dalliance... with young Prince Inigo immediately."

"E-excuse me?" Gerome spluttered, half embarrassed and half infuriated. "Even if that was going on, it's no business of yours with whom I choose to have dalliances."

"Gerome," Frederick gripped his shoulders more tightly. "I would have no issue with whomever you choose to give your affections to, but you cannot continue this affair. You must remember that Inigo is a prince, and that he has an obligation to carry on the line of the Exalted."

"Inigo has a sister," Gerome deadpanned. "I have no doubt Lucina-- either the one of this timeline or the one of mine-- will carry on the bloodline if Inigo fails to do so."

"You cannot simply allow his siblings to have children. It has to be the male heir," Frederick shook him slightly. "Look at Owain. Had Lord Chrom failed to have children, Owain would be future Exalt. Please, take a long look at him and tell me if you would like to live in a Halidom ruled by Owain."

"Gods," Gerome winced, thinking on it. Owain, bearing Falchion-- an actual legendary sword-- just might have a sword hand even less controllable than his current one. Owain, Exalt of Ylisse, ordering the soldiers to name their attacks and always let their foes do the same before striking.

"I know it is difficult to resist being attracted to men as great as those of the House Ylisse, but you must be strong, Gerome," said Frederick, a note of hysteria coming into his voice. "No matter how perfectly peach complements his complexion, how pert his Exalted buttocks are, or how soft his blue hair looks in the moonlight, you _must_ resist, for the good of all Ylisse."

For half a second, Gerome wondered how Frederick could have known about the complexion, or the buttocks, or especially the hair in the moonlight. And then he realized.

Inigo had inherited his fair skin from his father. Inigo had inherited his blue hair from his father. While Gerome hadn't had much of a chance to see Chrom from the back, he was willing to bet that...

Oh.

By the gods!

"Thank you... for the advice..." Gerome winced, trying desperately not to think about his father-but-not-father (and therefore also his Actual Father) lusting after Lord Chrom. He began to carefully pry Frederick's iron grip from his shoulder. "I'll be...I'll be going now."

He ran furiously for his own tent, with a burst of energy he didn't even know he had, lacing it up behind him. His face was burning with absolute mortification, and he prayed to whatever god was listening that the ground would just swallow him up. The entire day had been utterly awful.

But when Gerome looked to his bedroll, he discovered Inigo curled up beneath a warm quilt, one that Gerome had pieced himself, illuminated by a half-melted candle. Apparently, he'd spent more time than he'd thought being intercepted by Frederick, and he cringed as he saw the tracks of tears on a soft cheek. Inigo must have fallen asleep while waiting, probably believing that Gerome wasn't going to come to him because he hated him or something like that.

Gerome slipped from his dayclothes and curled up around his front, gently shaking the dozing prince awake.

"Hmmn," Inigo groaned, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. "Ge... rome?"

"Yes," Gerome answered. "I wanted to be sure you knew I did not intend for you to wait so long."

"You didn't show up when you normally do," Inigo frowned, shoving his whole face into Gerome's chest. "I haven't seen you all day... at first I thought it was because you wanted me to miss you. You know, like how you're not supposed to call on a lady two days in a row. But then I thought you were avoiding me because last night was bad for you, and that's why you left dinner so early. I'll improve, you know?? Practice makes perfect and stuff like that."

"Courtship rules are pointless," Gerome buried his nose in a mess of soft blue hair. "You know I don't hold with them. I was... delayed. Lucina pulled me into training, and then this evening... gods. Inigo, my parents figured us out. _Your mother_ figured us out."

Inigo's eyes shot open, "What!?"

"You... weren't being very discreet at dinner," Gerome reached a hand up to cover his face. "My fa-- Sir Frederick had a talk with me just now. And..."

He descended into quiet, incoherent mumbles.

"What?" Inigo asked incredulously.

"... I said, your mother asked me to be gentle with you," Gerome repeated, flushing red, rolling over so that he could hide his face with both hands.

"By the gods," Inigo turned over to hide his own face in the covers. "I can never speak to my mother again."

They lay there, furiously blushing for a few seconds as they tried to gather the composure to say something.

"Gerome," Inigo at last whimpered. "Do you hate me?"

"No," Gerome answered, still too mortified for more words.

"Are you sure?" Inigo questioned. "I'd hate me, too, if my mother said something like that to me."

"I don't hate you," Gerome replied, his voice still faintly muffled by the hands over his face. He purposefully neglected to mention that he hated most of their families at the moment, however.

"Okay," Inigo acquiesced, rolling over and tucking himself firmly into his lover's side. "Gerome?"

"Yes?"

"I love you, but... You're still wearing your mask. In bed."

Gerome cracked a smile, and that smile bloomed into a chuckle into a laugh. The absurdity of the situation was striking, that he and Inigo had just shared the most embarrassing moment of their lives and Inigo was _still_  worried about Gerome wearing his mask to bed. The prince, too, laughed, and deftly untied the ridiculous thing from his face.

Maybe today had been awful, but he had Inigo at the end of it, and that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few other ideas for this particular setting that features Chrom!Inigo and Fred!Gerome... if you wish to read more, please keep an eye on the series.


End file.
